


The Case of the Mysterious Fob Watch

by Deastrumquodvicis



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Wholock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:03:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deastrumquodvicis/pseuds/Deastrumquodvicis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John find a mysterious fob watch that neither of them can place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Mysterious Fob Watch

**Author's Note:**

> As prompted by Olivethebreloom on Tumblr.  
> Pardon the ugly name.

_Great, he's staring again._  I shift in my seat, just as bored as he is (probably, but I know he'd probably insist that I'm not). My leg aches. Damn thing wasn't supposed to hurt any more, not now that I know how to fix it. Not now that I know that those little glands sitting atop my kidneys could stop the deep, relentless ache. Truth is, though, when he gets bored, I get bored. When he starts complaining that his mind is like a caged animal, trying to get free, that's about the time I need the painkillers.

We (I say we!) haven't had a case in a little over a month now. Sherlock keeps going from periods of mania where he paces to the point I think I'm going to have to replace the floor to days of not moving and not eating unless I threaten him. It's driving me nuts. Right now, he's staring at the ceiling.

"Right, okay."

"What?"

"You're just going to sit there."

"What else do I have to do?"

"I dunno. We could...go to a flea market? You could look at some things, tell me about their owners?" I'm desperate. I know he's desperate.

"Boring." He dismisses it without a second thought.

"Got any better ideas?"

"Solving a quadruple homicide with no obvious entry or exit for the perpetrator."

"Got any better ideas we can actually do something with?" Sherlock rolls over. At least that's something. Not much, but something. I don't have anything else to do, so I make some tea. Really cliche, really stereotypical, but at least it gives us something to do, provided he'll drink the stuff.  _Sugar on the left,_  I remind myself. I don't want to know what that is in the sugar jar on the right.

By the time I get back to the living room, he's actually sitting up. He's holding a box. Some sort of jewelry box, like the one my great-grandfather's pocket watch is kept in. He hasn't opened it.

"What's that?"

"Fob watch."

"How-never mind." I can just hear his voice in my head,  _Shape and size of the box, manufacturer's label, obvious, really._  "Where'd it come from?"

"No idea."

I set his tea down and sit in my chair. "When did we get it-is it yours?"

"Don't know. Doesn't seem familiar. Found it when you were moving in."

"Well, I don't think it's mine. The only one I have came from my great-grandfather, and that's at Harry's."  _Or should be, if she hasn't pawned it._  "Can I see it?"

" _May_  I see it. Yes." He hands it out. Of course he'll make me walk over there to get it, regardless of my leg. Standing up, the deep throb gets suddenly worse, but I do my best to soldier on (haha) and take it. I open the box and look at the watch. It's really quite pretty. Circles on the silver case, like someone's drawn the clockwork inside.

"No names or anything on it, just these circles. What do you suppose they mean?" I'm suddenly aware that Sherlock is standing behind me, leaning over the chair, staring at it.

"Who says they mean anything? Artistic engravings, that sort of thing." His eyes still have that dreamy quality like they did a few minutes ago, but sort of different. Focussed on the watch. It's almost like he's high (and I've seen him high, but I'd really rather not go into that.)

"You okay?" I tear my eyes away from the watch and cover it up again in my hands.

"Fine." He tilts his head. "Something very odd about that watch, John." He crosses to the sofa again, and puts his hands together in what I think of as the  _bugger off, I'm thinking_  position. My wristwatch beeps-I'd almost forgotten I had to go to work today, but I do, and at least it's something (though I don't like leaving Sherlock alone when he gets like this. Last time it ended...badly.) I'll call Mrs. Hudson and ask her to check on him every so often. Reluctantly, I pick up my cane. I'm going to need it today.

It's a fairly boring day at work. Three colds, four self-diagnoses which are totally wrong, and a kid who wouldn't stop shoving toys up his nose. The most exciting thing to happen all day is the Münchausen patient who came in twice under two different names and the man wearing a cricket jumper, striped trousers, and celery on his lapel who commandeered the portable ultrasound machine for some reason. Okay, that bit was actually pretty exciting, just because he and his friends were dressed so strangely, but he said he was a doctor, so the nurse let him have it, and he returned it an hour later with a smile. It's good to know that not everyone is a thief.

My leg feels a little better after the ultrasound incident, but I still need my cane, and the steps up to our rooms are still painful. Sherlock isn't on the sofa. He's on the computer-my computer.

"Are you using my computer  _again_?" I've changed the password ten times just this week. Maybe I'll change it to  _sherlockyouareadickstopusingmystuffwithoutaskingmefirstandwaitingforananswer_  or something. Maybe just  _sherlockyoureadick_. No, he'd probably guess that one.

"Easier than mine." The watch was right in front of him, where the mouse ought to be if we didn't use the track pad. "Can't seem to find anything about the markings. Ah!" He broke into his  _I've got it_  smile.

"What?" I take my jacket off and limp over to see what he's looking at. He's found something, alright-a near-perfect copy of the watch.

"First World War veteran, one of the last. He owns another watch like this." He makes a note of the address and shoves my jacket back on.

"Sherlock, it's a bit late in the day-"

"Rubbish."

"Don't you think you're taking this a bit seriously? It's just a watch."

"It's a mystery, John. Something to do. It's either that or I start testing things in the microwave."

"Aheh, no, you win." Last time he'd done that, he'd fried the remote for the television. Oh, look, now I'm in a cab on our way to meet- "What's his name again?"

"Timothy Latimer. Pay attention." Neither Sherlock nor I speak again on the way to the hospital (mostly because I'm trying to snatch a few moments of sleep-it's not hard to ignore road sounds once you've slept in a war zone), and when we arrive, I can't help but look around at all the residents either loitering or being fed. One day, I'm going to end up here, if I don't get killed helping Sherlock. I can't help but shudder as I see one man, staring off into the distance, being spoon-fed. Of all the things I've ever seen, kids in suicide vests, roadside bombs, people with their legs blown off, I find helpless old age the most terrifying nightmare of all.

We pass through the hallways, and a nurse leads us to Mr. Latimer. He's in remarkably good shape, given his age. He's wheelchair-bound, but when he looks up from his book, I can tell his mind is still very alive. I hope to God Sherlock will be polite-he fought for our country, for the world, in some of the nastiest battlefield conditions imaginable (probably, and if he wasn't in the trenches himself, I don't bloody care, he still fought in that war, and I can't help but salute him).

"Mr. Latimer."

"Yes?"

"I contacted you earlier about a pocket watch."

"Oh, yes!" Mr. Latimer takes out his watch, and sure enough, it's the same as ours. Sherlock holds the other one next to it, studies it, looks at the way they differ (which isn't much, except for wear and tear), and hands Latimer back the other one.

"Where did you get it?"  _Sorry_ , I mouth, knowing that Sherlock isn't being very polite after all. He isn't using his interrogation tone, but he's still being...disrespectful. But Latimer doesn't seem to mind.

"A friend gave it to me, back in 1913. Where did you come by yours?"

"We don't know," I say. "Neither of us can remember where it came from."

"Have you opened it?" Latimer was soft. It was almost like he was afraid of the answer.

"Why?"

"It's broken." We've spoken simultaneously. Sherlock continues: "There's no ticking, even when I wind it. It's dead."

"And neither of you have heard it?"

"Heard it? What do you mean? He just said it isn't ticking."

"Maybe it wasn't meant for you." Sherlock and I exchange glances, my heart sinking. "Find who the watch speaks to. Find who hears its song. It should be theirs." Old age did get to him, after all.

"Thank you for your time," Sherlock says, and I salute again.

"And your service."

That night, I dream of Afghanistan again. It's the first time in a long time, but I can't wake up. Explosions, people shouting, that group of kids I didn't get to save being silenced mid-scream as the guns rip through their flesh. And then through mine. It hurts so much, so damned much, and I know it hasn't hit any vital veins, so if I am going to bleed out and die, it's going to take forever, and even I can't help but cry out in pain.

"Watson! Watson!" Tonight, the dream is more real, sharper, more vivid, but the colours are all wrong. I wake up sweating again, breathing hard, the nerves in my shoulder reminded of that bullet and throbbing.

I go downstairs to get some water. Sherlock's still staring at that damned watch. "Just leave it," I snap. I know that just from that Sherlock knows why I'm downstairs at half three in the morning.

"I'm going to open it."

"Okay." Why is he telling me? I take a sip just as I hear the soft click-it seems the watch was stuck. The flat glows with a strange yellow-gold light, reflecting off of every panel of glass the light can find.

_"Watson! Watson!" I'm on the ground, I'm dying. The energy beam has hit me full-on in the shoulder. I might regenerate, I might not. The Daleks are swarming in. Castellan Andred is beside me, trying to get me to stay conscious, to remember to regenerate. "Stay with me, Captain!" He always did mingle with his troops, always did care personally for every one of them._

_Glass shatters-not a gentle tinkle. That was the Citadel Dome. Oh, Rassilon. Gallifrey's fallen. I'm not regenerating. Why the hell am I not regenerating?_

_"You're going to make it. Just stay with me long enough to get you out of here."_

_"Not deserter. Won't leave." I'm barely conscious. I should feel that surge of warmth. I don't._

_"Fine. I'm ordering you, Captain Watson, to retreat. Abandon Gallifrey. You're to use the Chameleon Arch at once, is that understood?"_

_"N-yes, sir," I gasp. Maybe if I can make it, I'll live. There's a blinding pain as every cell in me changes-not regeneration, but a species change. Then the orange sky turns blue and one sun vanishes. I don't remember Gallifrey. I am human._

"John?" I've dropped my glass. I've remembered everything. I'm an alien. Captain Watson of the Chancellery Guard of Gallifrey, promoted to Time Lord rank out of necessity, shot by a Dalek, turned human to survive, and stranded on a planet with a level five civilization and hip-hop.

Now what the hell am I going to tell Sherlock?

**Author's Note:**

> It makes more sense, in these situations, for John to be the Time Lord--Chameleon Arch technology is to help blend in, and Sherlock is anything but blended.


End file.
